Two years and counting

It has been two years since his death but the pain is raw as it is agonizing, and the wound carved out by his absence remains young and fresh – fresher than the flowers that have emerged of their own accord and grow in wondrous ferocity over his grave. I come here often, visit him in hopes of finding solitude, some serenity or the other that will slowly ebb away this pain into oblivion. And I bring him flowers, always. He loved flowers. Loves them still, I hope. If I did not know better, I would think these angelic petals that billow silently in the summer breeze carry his spirit, nurture it to keep him alive for me, and I come here to be with him. A part of me never wants to leave. I want to sit here, spend every waking moment by his side in this vast meadow speckled with headstones, full names and birth dates of those who will never return. And the wind caresses my cheeks, dries my tears while I hold fast to colossal fears and struggle to confront foreboding thoughts of spending waking hours without remembering, of losing moments and memories, letting go of everything that he meant, still means. How to love one departed without drowning in a piercing pain, falling weakened in submission to waves of overwhelming loss crashing upon our own mortal souls, I have yet to learn.

They tell me he is alive and lives as long as I will remember him. Their words are fearful and futile, for I still vividly recall the day that they had fallen to their knees, heads bowed and held heavily in their quivering hands. They mourned for him then and I mourn for him still.